“Tres jolie,
 Peu polie,
 Possedant un gros magot;
 Fort en gueule,
 Pas begueule;
 Telle etait—­”

The stranger looked up, and paused in the midst of his lines, open-mouthed.  For a moment he stood and stared astonished.  Then, raising his native cap with a graceful air, and bowing low, as he would have bowed to a lady on the Boulevard, he advanced to greet a brother European with the familiar words, in good educated French, “Monsieur, I salute you!”

To Felix, the sound of a civilized voice in the midst of so much strange and primitive barbarism, was like a sudden return to some forgotten world, so deeply and profoundly did it move and impress him.  He grasped the sunburnt Frenchman’s rugged hand in his.  “Who are you?” he cried, in the very best Parisian he could muster up on the spur of the moment.  “And how did you come here?”

“Monsieur,” the Frenchman answered, no less profoundly moved than himself, “this is, indeed, wonderful!  Do I hear once more that beautiful language spoken?  Do I find myself once more in the presence of a civilized person?  What fortune!  What happiness!  Ah, it is glorious, glorious.”

For some seconds they stood and looked at one another in silence, grasping their hands hard again and again with intense emotion; then Felix repeated his question a second time:  “Who are you, monsieur? and where do you come from?”

“Your name, surname, age, occupation?” the Frenchman repeated, bursting forth at last into national levity.  “Ah, monsieur, what a joy to hear those well-known inquiries in my ear once more.  I hasten to gratify your legitimate curiosity.  Name:  Peyron; Christian name:  Jules; age:  forty-one; occupation:  convict, escaped from New Caledonia.”

Under any other circumstances that last qualification might possibly have been held an undesirable one in a new acquaintance.  But on the island of Boupari, among so many heathen cannibals, prejudices pale before community of blood; even a New Caledonian convict is at least a Christian European.  Felix received the strange announcement without the faintest shock of surprise or disgust.  He would gladly have shaken hands then and there with M. Jules Peyron, indeed, had he introduced himself in even less equivocal language as a forger, a pickpocket, or an escaped house-breaker.

“And you, monsieur?” the ex-convict inquired, politely.

Felix told him in a few words the history of their accident and their arrival on the island.

“Comment?” the Frenchman exclaimed, with surprise and delight.  “A lady as well; a charming English lady!  What an acquisition to the society of Boupari! Quelle chance!  Quel bonheur! Monsieur, you are welcome, and mademoiselle too!  And in what quality do you live here?  You are a god, I see; otherwise you would not have dared to transgress my taboo, nor would this young man—­your Shadow, I suppose—­have permitted you to do so.  But which sort of god, pray?  Korong—­or Tula?”